Daily Poetry & Prose

Pangs of duty rivers of sadness streaming down her face the dark shadows hung around like a sweater in a closet Harboring criminals in her heart Basking in the tender refuge she provides The slow drawn horseless carriage the fountain pen the fountain The vampire and the cobra The drummer and the damned The dancer spinning kissing danger just to flirt with  hope.

There was something genius that I thought, it was heavy I am sure, full of pondering and humor plus wit for good measure. But somehow, it has slipped my mind and now I can't locate that thought which I was quite convinced was going to be great.

Poems are not architecture they do not require blueprints Poems are a structure nonetheless like a teepee on the prairie with the wind blowing through part of nature part of the self with all of its bones and sinews buffalo hide over sticks drawn tightly before looking at the sky for the weather. Dance is not sport there are no competitions nor prizes Dance is athletic and the body moves but it moves for the gods the muses and the choreographer guiding the movement like a conductor guides an orchestra each piece moving  in tandem. Love is not coffee Although it can be dark and bitter it's not something that you have every day it's not something to kick you into gear or awaken the senses artificially although when you close your eyes it can have the same dreamlike  effect. Books are not boots although you can wear them and go places Grab the stiff leather and shove a foot and drudge up some weary trail only to discover it is a mountaintop. Pride is not a drug although you can l...

I woke up on a distant planet surrounded by the rain and snow cleansed by nature's madness I started to row my boat ashore because I was in the ocean surrounded by dolphins flipping their fins in rhythms splashing I slept in a faraway cave wrapped up in blankets cooing speaking to Plato in hushed tones by firelight as we watched it dance upon the walls The bison and the handprints from ancient days A new writing experiment is writing to music--for this poem I used this video. It's kind of funny that "this is is the sound of inner peace"--is it? I'm clicking.

Mesmerizing resonance framed in simplicity Hurry get the crumbling parts of your mind and hold the sand in your hand fling them to the wind

I took a hand drum  went down to the beach slammed my palms on the skins and talked to God. I sure as F don't need a priest, I live outloud.

So many times I could have tipped the scales but I am a fish now and time is just a snail.